Cry for the Strangers Page 0,111

It was the nearest telephone. You want me to wait here for you?”

“No, I can meet you at your place. I’ll have to call Harney and tell him what’s happened.”

“I know,” Brad said. “If I hadn’t been able to find you I’d have called him myself.”

“Okay,” Chip grunted. “Go on back home. I’ll get there as soon as I can.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Is Glen all right?”

“A little shock but he should be out of it by the time you get there.”

“Will he be able to answer questions?”

Now there was a long silence, and when Brad finally answered his voice was guarded. “It depends on what kind of questions. That’s why I called you instead of Whalen, Chip.”

Chip bit his lip thoughtfully and wondered what would happen if he simply handled it himself and didn’t notify Harney until morning. He’d get his ass chewed, that’s what would happen, he decided. “I have to call him,” he told Brad. “He’s the chief.”

“I know,” Brad said tiredly. “All right. See you.”

Chip replaced the receiver on the phone under the bar and wasn’t surprised when he found Merle Glind hovering behind him, his eyes wide and curious.

“What is it?” he asked. “What’s happened?”

“Jeff Horton. He’s out on Sod Beach, dead.”

“Mercy!” Glind said. Then he clucked his tongue, his head wagging sympathetically. “I knew he should have gone. I just knew it.”

But Chip wasn’t listening. He had the phone in his hand once more, and was dialing Harney Whalen’s number. On the tenth ring, just as Chip was about to give up, Whalen’s voice came onto the line.

“Did I get you out of bed?” Chip asked.

“No,” Whalen replied, his voice sounding a little vague. “I was watching television. I guess I must have dozed off.”

“Well, you’d better get down to Sod Beach right away. Jeff Horton’s out there and he’s dead.” There was a silence and Chip wasn’t sure the chief had heard him. Then, as he was about to repeat himself, Whalen’s voice grated over the line.

“I warned the son-of-a-bitch,” he said. “Nobody can say I didn’t warn him. Take care of it, will you, Chip?”

The phone went dead in Chip’s hand. Harney had hung up on him.

By midnight it was all over. Chip Connor and Brad Randall had brought Jeff Horton’s body in out of the storm. It lay in the dining room, covered by a blanket, until an ambulance could be summoned to take it away. Rebecca and Elaine, chilled by the closeness of death, avoided the dining room as if whatever had killed Jeff might still be lurking there.

Chip hovered near while Brad examined the body, going over it quickly but expertly. When he was finished he drew the blanket over Jeff’s face and spoke quietly to Chip.

“His neck’s broken. That’s all I can find. Of course a full autopsy will have to be done, but that’s not my business. And I doubt they’ll find anything else. It’s almost incredible that he was still alive when Glen found him.”

“Why?”

“The way his neck was bent. He should have been dead just a minute or two after his neck was broken.”

“Then how did he stay alive?”

Brad shook his head doubtfully. “I’m not sure. Pure will, probably. His windpipe must have stayed open, but his spinal column is a mess.”

“Did Glen’s touching him have anything to do with him dying?”

“It might have but he’d have died anyway. If anything, all Glen did was put him out of his misery. There was no way he could have survived what happened.”

“What did happen?” Chip asked. “Can you tell?”

“From the bruises on the back of the neck, it looks like someone hit him with something—hard enough to crush the bones in his neck—then jerked on his head to make sure the job was done.”

“Christ,” Chip groaned, feeling a little sick at his stomach. “Why would anyone want to do that?”

“I wish I knew.” He looked curiously at Chip. “Isn’t Whalen coming out?”

“No. He told me to take care of it for him. I guess he still isn’t feeling well.”

“What do you mean?”

“He took yesterday off,” Chip said. “When I talked to him this morning he said something about indigestion. I guess it must have hit him again tonight.”

“Indigestion?” Brad repeated. “He doesn’t seem the type. He looks strong as an ox.”

“He is,” Chip agreed. “But he’s sixty-eight years old, even though he doesn’t look it.”

“Sixty-eight? I’d have thought he was in his late fifties.”

“Nope. He’ll be sixty-nine in August.”

Brad shook his head admiringly.